I climb up on Tiananmen Gatehouse
A sound
Ever reverberates in my ears
I turn my view outward
The red flag flaps
Cars flow like shuttles
The photographer tells me to raise my arm and wave
But my hand that is used to writing poetry
Droops down like a pen
pointing at the earth where masses of people have stood before

Mountain Road

From the native village
the mother's hand
unafraid of brambles and thorns
passing over mountain peaks
from afar
reaches for me